It was a sinner's suicide for anyone to work at Coopers Incorporation. It was no surprise that people aimed to stray far from the Devil known as Mr Elijah Cooper.
Cold, demanding, and rough, he ruled over everything with an iron grip and a calculati...
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Nora's P.O.V
"Ma’am, would you like anything else?"
A voice pulled me back from the depths of my thoughts—distant, barely registering. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Maybe if I ignored it, it would disappear, like the world around me. But the voice persisted, slicing through my trance like a blade through silk.
"Huh?" I murmured, my mind still anchored elsewhere.
I had been drowning in one of those moments—the kind where life stretches out before you like a vast, merciless ocean, and you stand on the edge, staring into its abyss. Every choice I’d made, every regret I carried, weighed on me. A silent trial where I played both judge and executioner, and the verdict was always the same: I was stuck.
I’d been sitting in the café for over half an hour, lost in the whirlwind of my own existence. Elijah. The job. The cryptic messages that had become my reality. I kept telling myself I needed a break, needed to step away from it all. But the truth was, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Responsibility had me shackled—my mother needed me, and my family needed the money.
The world outside moved too fast, like an unstoppable tidal wave, relentless and indifferent. Time itself felt cruel, counting down the seconds while I remained motionless, trapped in a loop. How can I keep up with the world when I can’t even keep up with myself?
"Ma’am, are you okay?"
The voice snapped me back. I blinked, finally turning away from the rain-streaked window to face the waitress.
"Yes. Why?"
She huffed, rolling her eyes ever so slightly—just enough to betray her annoyance. Her attitude was the kind that clashed with the polished pretense of customer service. Only now, as I tuned in, did I fully absorb my surroundings. The scrape of chairs against tiled floors. The clinking of coffee cups. The high-pitched wheeze of kettles. The gentle hum of violin music drifting from overhead speakers, a melancholic cover of some pop song. The air was thick with the scent of roasted coffee beans, a warmth that barely reached me.
"Because you’ve been staring into space for five minutes," she muttered. "Good customer service means I have to check."
I bit back a smirk. How ironic.
"I’ll have a vanilla cupcake. The one with cherries on top."
The waitress nodded and stalked off, her irritation palpable. I didn’t take it personally. People had their own battles.
While waiting, I mindlessly scrolled through Instagram—cats, vacation pictures, meaningless glimpses into other people’s lives. Anything to avoid searching the Cooper family’s accounts. Anything to avoid opening a wound that refused to heal.
